


corona

by rukafais



Series: a study of divinity [2]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, POV Second Person, Sickness, alas unnamed moth we knew ye well, i'm not sure if this counts as death but probably needs a technical warning for death, or at least Cessation Of Previous Existence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 18:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18299921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rukafais/pseuds/rukafais
Summary: The light is a sacrament. Its presence in your head, in your dreams, is a constant prayer. Vital fluid runs from clear to gold, under your shell.There is nothing other than this.





	corona

**Author's Note:**

> More exploratory work. It's hard to explain how I interpret Radiance in normal words, because I sound weird. This is still weird, but hopefully more comprehensible in some odd way.

You are always struck by how peaceful they look, bathed in the light. No darkness touches them, not where it matters; not in their hearts or their minds. They offer themselves up in silent, endless worship. A god needs belief, to be focused on, to exist. (A god needs _fuel._ ) Asked for and willingly given.

Your people aren’t made to live in the light. It takes them to pieces, eventually. They forget how to touch, to sense, to see the world around them; they lose themselves in the warmth of dreams, and forget how to wake up. Eventually, they become like dreams themselves, but surely it’s the most worthy offering of all - to give yourself so wholly to the god who made you that you become like her.

The lucky ones can knit and weave dreams to hold themselves in. Glittering anchors to tie them to the world and give shape to their ghosts.

Others fail and falter at the final step, unwilling to take the plunge. They drown in dreams and never pull back up. They do not wake. Eventually, they forget to breathe, and their hearts forget to beat, and they are mourned.

The ground where they pray shines magnificently, decorated with the dead. The scales of hundreds upon hundreds of wings.

Nobody knows which ones will be lucky, and which ones are not.

You tend to them, these dreamers and their dreaming-ground. At the end of every day, your hands and arms are iridescent and sparkling with the trappings of corpses. At first, you thought it an honor.

Now, you are merely weary.

You ache for sleep. Your dreams are filled with light and warmth.

You do not remember them.

They are not restful. They do not make you feel any less tired than before.

There is a heat in your veins that clings to you for hours. Prickling and feverish, under your shell, under the skin. If you had any concept of being sick, of any idea of what that meant, if the god did not protect you from such things, you would be worried.

You are not worried. There is nothing to be worried about. ( _You tell yourself that, over and over._ )

You sleep, and wake. Sleep, and wake.

Your dreams are filled with song and sun.

The heat, her blessing ( _the fever)_ languishes in your blood.

* * *

In every whisper, you hear Her voice. The rustle of the leaves in the wind, the murmurs of others around you, the noise of the world that you can touch; it blends and fades into Her song.

And She is always singing. Her voice is bell and cacophony, choir and prayer. She is beautiful, and you could listen to Her forever ( _she is terrible, her voice rings hymns against your skull and empties you, makes your heartbeat quiver_ ), and She wants nothing but your worship and your happiness. An eternal kingdom, ever and on down into the endless years, a world perfect and unchanging. A dream that never ends.

In the corner of your eyes you see the light, flickering. You hear the whispers of Her voice, made of hundreds of others; in the world below she cannot speak, and so she uses the sounds of her worshippers, their minds.

You wonder how much of them is left, and how much of them is joined to Her, mere extensions of Her love and will, and you shy away from the thought.

She speaks to you as you wash the graves, as you attend those longing for ascension, as you scrub death from your hands. The burial ground is more lively to you now than the villages that lead to them; the ghosts chatter and speak to you, echoes of themselves. The living are quiet and subdued, placid and peaceful. Always basking in the light, taking Her in, thinking and dreaming of nothing else.

You never remember what She says, because the god’s voice turns your vision white and deafens you, but you know She only wishes for your happiness, to give you relief from weariness and from disaster. To transform your frail form to something so much stronger. To release you from earthly burdens and mortality.

Your veins crawl and writhe with heat. It does not abate, no matter how many times you douse yourself in cold water. You wake one day and find yourself unable to rise; you are too weak.

This is a transformation, you understand, you have been chosen. ( _The illness turns you inside out and wrings you thin. You wrung out water from cloth, once, when you were well, and this burning heat in you is doing the same, little by little, seeping away your individuality._ )

You dream of prying open your own chest, your heart pouring out of you, your blood a torrent of blinding light. You weep tears and find water transmuted to gold. There is no pain, only joy and relief. ( _The pain is excruciating, and it splinters through your body, tears your organs to pieces. Your blood evaporates, your heart a hole, your body made a cage._ )

You wake and struggle, but your struggles are weak. Your body is a cocoon, a chrysalis, making you something more. ( _Your body is a coffin you will die in_.)

To be better requires pain. You understand this. ( _You did not ask for the blessing. Your thoughts are broken against Hers. If the mind is a sea, yours has been swept up in the tide, crushed mercilessly against the rocks._

_She is beautiful and terrible and unrelenting and She does not understand the world in which you were born, the world you love, you loved, are struggling to remember exists day by day. That happiness and sorrow are linked, hand in hand. She does not understand the ways of mortals._

_She only wants to bring you release._ )

She loves you. She wants you to be happy. ( _She wants you to be happy and that is the most terrible thing of all._ )

Her voice resonates in your head and uses your mouth to sing lullabies and prayers to you. The vibration of the song crawls up your spine, sends brightness into your nerves and veins. Your mind, frantic from such effort, excited at the potential of such transformation, is calmed. ( _The light crawls in your mind, soothing you, consuming your thoughts little by little._ )

A haze settles. You settle.

Soon, you will leave this world behind for good. Soon, you will be free of weariness and pain. You will have wings to soar and a goddess to love and endless, eternal sunlight. Warmth, forevermore.

Soon, you will be happy.

( _Soon, soon, soon._

 _There will be nothing left of you, except the parts that sing Her praises, except the parts that can feel happiness and nothing else._ )


End file.
